


Best of Both Worlds

by fourteencandles (thingsbaker)



Series: Parallel Worlds [1]
Category: Entourage
Genre: M/M, magic elevator of dooooom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 01:40:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3750205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingsbaker/pseuds/fourteencandles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve been here half as long as you,” Eric said.</p><p>“Whose fucking fault is that?” Vince asked. </p><p>“It’s —”</p><p>The elevator stopped with a jolt. Vince felt a weird, momentary tingle along his spine, and he jerked his hand away from the little metal handrail, saw that Eric was doing the same. </p><p>(AKA: The Parallel Universe Story)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Best of Both Worlds（翻譯）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7527097) by [speechlessG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/speechlessG/pseuds/speechlessG)



> Originally posted on Livejournal in 2008. Thanks to shoshannagold for beta work back then!

They had been sniping at each other all week, maybe even all month; it was so bad that Thursday morning, Vince  _woke up_  annoyed at Eric. It didn’t help that Eric was already pounding on his door, saying, “We’re gonna be late, asshole.” Vince groaned and yelled back a couple names of his own, then got up and dressed and ready. Turtle was already gone for the day, or maybe had been gone since last night — no one really wanted to hang out with the two of them anymore, and Vince couldn’t blame them. All he and Eric did was fight.  
  
That morning, they stopped along the way for coffee (they didn’t fight, at least, about who was going to pay, though Eric gave Vince a really fucking annoying look when he ordered a regular latte instead of a soy version) and Eric played the radio loud so they wouldn’t have to talk en route. Vince concentrated on thinking about the meeting ahead, not about what a fucking prissy prick Eric could be, with his ironed Armani shirt and his precise way of driving and his goddamned obnoxious habit of checking his cell phone clock every time they stopped even though there was a perfectly good clock on the dash, if it was soooo vital that Eric make a point about being late.   
  
He wished MGA was closer to the house.  
  
They managed to make it to the building without saying much of anything, but on the way in, Eric said, “He’s gonna want you to sign for Sustainable Energy.”  
  
“Not until Johnny’s in the contract,” Vince said.  
  
“Vince, come on,” Eric said. They’d had this talk a hundred times before, and Eric just didn’t get it. Vince had promised Johnny a role — it was the least they could do. He didn’t even care if the thing got cut later on. “Take your career seriously, for once, would you?”  
  
“I take it seriously,” Vince said. “It’s a good fucking movie, right? So why shouldn’t Johnny have a shot at it? He’s my brother, you want me to just ignore him?”  
  
“You want this director to just ignore you?” Eric asked. They stopped in front of the elevators and waited for one to open. Though Vince hoped for a cute secretary or someone to join them and, maybe, deflate the anger, there was no one else around, so they got into the first one alone. “You keep this up, you’re gonna get a difficult reputation. And reputations fucking matter.”  
  
“Oh, did you just figure that out?” Vince muttered.  
  
Eric hit the button for Ari’s floor and stood close to the doors as they closed, and Vince lounged against the back wall, not at all thinking about how fun it would be to kick Eric from there. “I’ve been here half as long as you,” Eric said.  
  
“Whose fucking fault is that?” Vince asked.   
  
“It’s —”  
  
The elevator stopped with a jolt. Vince felt a weird, momentary tingle along his spine, and he jerked his hand away from the little metal handrail, saw that Eric was doing the same.   
  
“What the fucking fuck?” Eric said, shaking out his hand.   
  
“We’re stuck,” Vince said.  
  
Eric jabbed at the buttons; when nothing happened, he whipped out his cell phone and called Lloyd. Two minutes later, they were moving again. Vince felt a little shaken up by the experience, but they got out OK and there was a little crowd of on-lookers when they got off, so he didn’t say anything. In a way, he was glad for the malfunction, because it had stopped his fight with Eric cold.  
  
In fact, they made it through the rest of the day without fighting, which was a miracle, and that night they finished off a bottle of Cabernet and had a nice talk, the first time they’d come close to getting along in weeks.  
  
“You know, I wish I would have come out here with you, after high school,” Eric said, a little drunk. “I should have listened.”  
  
“Or I should have,” Vince said. “I never should have left without you.”  
  
“Things would be different,” Eric said, and then he shrugged. “Well, maybe not.”   
  
“Yeah,” Vince agreed. “I think — no matter what, this is where we would have ended up. Maybe not so different at all.”  
  
But he went to bed thinking about it, and all of the ways that things could have been different, and he couldn’t help wondering about — and maybe even wishing for — what things would have been like if he hadn’t left New York without Eric by his side. He couldn’t help thinking that maybe they’d be happier now.  
  


* * *

  
  
He woke to an unfamiliar, high-pitched beeping, then a familiar groan. Vince opened his eyes and watched Eric’s arm sail across and turn off the alarm. “Ugh,” Eric muttered, and he kissed the side of Vince’s head.  
  
It worked, Vince thought, and he smiled, fought the urge to sit upright and cheer. He got his wish. So this is what it would've been like, Eric snuggled close. No more fighting. The new world seemed good so far. Vince stayed perfectly still, wondering how much, exactly, had changed. The ceiling was definitely unfamiliar – low, made up of the foamy tiles they used to have in school in New York.  
  
New York.  
  
Vince did sit up, then, because he knew exactly where they were: he could hear the traffic outside, could see the amber glow of city darkness through the Venetian blinds on the window. He was in New York. With Eric. In an apartment.   
  
It worked.   
  
Eric’s hand rested on his back. “Hey, you OK?” he asked.   
  
“Uh, yeah,” Vince said. He turned and looked down at Eric. He looked the same – well, OK, not exactly the same. His haircut was different, shorter, and there was a thin scar through his right eyebrow. Vince reached out to touch that with his thumb, and Eric closed his eyes, leaned into his hand.  
  
“Tempting,” he said, kissing Vince’s palm, “but I’ve already been late once this month. No way I can do two days.” He pulled back and grinned. Then, before Vince could say anything, Eric turned and slid out of bed. He let in a blast of cold air that made Vince hiss and flop back down into the blankets. The sheets were kind of scratchy, but the space Eric had just left was warm. Vince put his head on Eric’s pillow and watched him collecting clothes from a narrow, beat-up dresser – a dresser Vince recognized as the one that used to sit in Eric’s room at his mom’s place.   
  
What Vince didn’t recognize was the ripple of muscle across Eric’s back as he stripped off his undershirt. Eric was fit in the world Vince knew, sure, but here – Eric was ripped. Vince couldn’t help staring.   
  
Eric looked over his shoulder. “Don’t go back to sleep,” he said. “You gotta meet Franklin at 9, right?”   
  
Vince blinked. “Sure,” he said. Franklin? Fuck. He glanced at the clock. It was 7:30.   
  
Eric had already ducked into the bathroom, which was just outside the bedroom door – if this could be called a bedroom. There was barely enough room between the bed and the dresser to walk, and only a narrow closet. Vince knew he should get up and investigate, but it was cold; he would wait for Eric to get done, then maybe he could figure more of this out. He wondered if this was his place or Eric’s, then decided, based on the dresser, that it was Eric’s.  
  
He dozed again and woke to Eric’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him. “Seriously, babe,” he said. “Get a shower, you’ll feel better. I hung your shirt up in the bathroom, too, to get less wrinkly.”   
  
“Thanks,” Vince murmured. Eric kissed him on the mouth, a nice kiss, quick but sweet, and Vince opened his eyes.  
  
Eric smiled at him. “See you after work.”   
  
Vince nodded. Once he heard the door close, he pushed himself out of bed. It was still cold, so he hustled into the bathroom, which was warm and steamy, the mirror fogged over. There were two toothbrushes in the holder, and Vince stared at them and realized he wasn't just in Eric's apartment -- he was in the apartment he and Eric were sharing. That tiny bedroom was theirs. Vince looked around: there were two towels hanging from a hook on the door, next to his shirt. He flipped open the medicine cabinet. It was empty, except for an unopened bottle of lubricant. Vince laughed. OK, he thought, small apartment, but we still know how to have fun. He picked up the nearest toothbrush -- who knew which was which – and stepped into the shower, grateful for warm water. He started to wash his face and realized he had a beard – well, that was fine, one less step to go through. He used the cheap shampoo next to the tub and a bar of soap that smelled exactly like Eric’s pillow.  
  
He did feel better after his shower, warmer, refreshed. A black, long-sleeved button-down was hanging from the back of the door, and Vince slid it on. He took a guess at whose underwear was whose, then found a pair of jeans over the back of a chair in the kitchen that were definitely his. His shoes were by the door, next to a small black cell phone. “Thank God,” he muttered, checking the address book.   
  
He hit dial when he found Franklin’s name.   
  
“You can’t already be running late,” a high-pitched voice grumbled.   
  
“No,” Vince said, affecting a laugh. “No, I just – this is stupid, but, uh, where are we meeting?”   
  
There was a pause. “Uh, same place we’ve been meeting for the last four weeks.” Another pause, as Vince pounded his forehead with his fist. “Baby, tell me you’re not on something.”   
  
“What? No,” Vince said. “No, I swear, I just – look, uh, you ever, like, wake up weird? I mean – like I was having this dream, and now I’m all mixed up.” He bit his lip, hoping that would work. “That ever happen to you?”   
  
“Only every fucking day,” Franklin said. “Wake the fuck up, all right? I’ll see you in an hour at the station – that’s the Queensboro Plaza, OK? In case you fall back to dreamland.”   
  
“Queensboro,” Vince repeated, and hung up. Queenboro Plaza – Queens Boulevard. He entertained the possibility, for a moment, that he was in his own movie, but no. No, Eric was here.   
  
He glanced out the window and couldn’t tell immediately where he was, which was alarming. He could be in College Point or something, which would mean he  _was_  already running late. He found a coat hanging on a crooked rack by the door, pulled on gloves and a hat, and hurried outside – and into a narrow, dimly lit hallway, fresh out of his childhood. The place smelled dank even in the cold, which was at least ten degrees worse out here already. Vince shivered and started down the stairs – it was four flights to the floor.  
  
Outside, he got his bearings pretty quickly, heading for the street to the right with traffic. Kissena Boulevard. Flushing. OK. He hurried toward Main Street, watching his step, dodging the crush of shoppers and early-morning strollers, hearing curses and teases being bandied around in Chinese, Korean. He hadn’t been back here in years, but he found the station for the 7 train easy enough. Inside, he had a moment of panic – he hadn’t thought about his wallet before leaving – but he found subway tokens in his pocket, next to his keys (something else he’d forgot to check for). He dropped a token in and ran to the track, squeezed into a train a second away from leaving the station.   
  
So. Back in New York. He was living in a small, shitty apartment, with Eric, and apparently he had something to do with some guy named Franklin. Something that apparently didn’t require dressing up, which seemed like a plus, unless – Vince swallowed. Unless he was on his way to some truly horrible job. He remembered Eric’s muscular arms and surreptitiously felt his own. Not so ripped, but still strong. Moving boxes, maybe, or loading shit at the docks, or – Christ, who knew where he was headed. Vince hadn't done any heavy lifting since junior high, not outside of a gym, and the prospect was daunting. He wanted to sit down, but there was no room, so he rested his head against his bent arm.  
  
By the time he reached Queensboro Plaza, Vince was feeling a little better. If it was a really shitty job, well, he’d just leave. This wasn’t his real life, after all. He stepped off the train and into the crush of the Subway at rush hour – not something he enjoyed, but his body, this body, seemed familiar with it, seemed to know exactly how to dodge, twist, shift away from the people flooding onto the train. He wondered how he was supposed to know Franklin, if they had a usual meeting place. The station was bogged down in repairs at the moment, too – Vince had no idea how to get anywhere, which didn’t really matter, he figured, because he didn’t know where he was going. At this point, he figured he’d be lucky to make it home in one piece. Jesus, had he really been away from home for this long? New York used to be easy to navigate for him, when he and Eric and Turtle had been running around as kids. But right now – he felt disoriented in a couple of different ways, and he missed the ease of life in L.A. – car services, Turtle driving him around, valets. He’d left Queens for reasons beyond wanting to make it in the movies.  
  
He glanced at his watch – and then realized he wasn’t wearing one. Even better. He walked to the Queensboro Plaza sign and slumped next to it, hoping Franklin – whoever he was – would just find him. He’d give him a couple trains, then he’d figure out how to get on the eastbound line again.   
  
”Jesus, you are out of it,” he heard, a second before a hand clamped onto his arm.   
  
A skinny blonde guy with watery blue eyes was shaking his head at Vince. “Franklin?”   
  
“I thought you promised E you were done with this shit,” he said, his grip tightening.   
  
“I’m not on anything,” Vince said, shaking his hand off. "I swear."  
  
Franklin gave him a quick once-over that made Vince feel uncomfortable. He wondered what, exactly, his relationship to Franklin was. Surely he wasn’t cheating on Eric. “You better hope not,” Franklin said. His tone was friendly, teasing. “’Cuz you fuck things up and I’m totally going after him.”   
  
Vince rolled his eyes. “Like he’d go for you,” Vince said, and Franklin laughed.   
  
“Honey, don’t knock what you haven’t tried,” he said, and looped his arm with Vince’s. Well, that answers that, Vince thought. “Come on, dreamy, we’re gonna be late, as usual.”   
  
Franklin navigated the station like a pro, and Vince got the feeling that this wasn’t unusual at all, that Franklin always took the lead. So I’m managed even here, he thought, and felt a little better. Beyond that, Franklin clearly wasn’t cut out for manual labor – Vince envied his thin leather gloves – so maybe things were going better than he hoped. Maybe _Franklin_  was his manager here.  
  
They took the W train, and Vince felt a brief thrill – Broadway? If he was in a show there, it shouldn't be too hard to get his life back on track. He could call one of the New York agents, get them down to see a show. From there, it wasn't a long trip to Ari's attention, and Vince had to believe that even in this world, Ari was out there somewhere, just waiting for him. A couple of months, they'd ditch the shitty apartment and the subway and get things back together.  
  
They got off at the Times Square station, Franklin chattering the whole way about his landlady and some fight they’d had over his cat. All Vince wanted to do was make him slow down, get him to answer a few questions, but he couldn’t get a word in. As they reached the top of the stairs, Vince stopped, not sure which way to turn.   
  
“You really are out of it today, huh?”   
  
Vince looked back at him from the busy hustle of Times Square. He’d spent New Years’ Eve here, two years ago, met Dick Clarke, even, made a brief appearance on his telecast to promote an upcoming film. Eric had been there, and they’d laughed and toasted everything that happened with champagne. “I guess,” Vince said. “I dunno, maybe I’m coming down with something.”   
  
Franklin stepped to the side. “Don’t even joke,” he hissed, grabbing Vince’s arm. “Come on, for that you can buy me coffee.”   
  
They got a cup apiece on the way to the theater – small, cheap, plain coffee from a sidewalk vendor – and then Franklin continued his lead, away from Broadway onto 7th, then a right, a left, Vince could barely keep up, let alone pay attention. His feet were freezing; his hands were turning red and white around the coffee cup, which he couldn’t make himself drink. He wanted a latte. He wanted a driver. He did this every day?   
  
“Here we are!” Franklin said, stopping abruptly in front of what looked like a chrome-fronted office building. “Home sweet home.”   
  
Vince swallowed. OK, he was an accountant. An off Broadway accountant. Maybe a mail-room worker. His hands were so tight on the coffee that he crushed the cup and jumped backward to avoid the spill.   
  
“You’re a wreck,” Franklin said, pulling him through the doors.   
  
They were in a theater. Oh, thank Christ, Vince thought, sucking one burnt finger into his mouth. It was a small theater, sure, and clearly still in the process of being set up, but a theater none-the-less; he could smell make-up and powder. He could see klieg lights stacked in the halls, scaffolding, cans of paint.  _Thank God I’m still an actor_.   
  
Franklin grabbed both of his arms. “Please tell me, for serious, you aren’t fighting with your beautiful boy, are you?”   
  
“No,” Vince said, shaking his head. “We’re fine.” He thought of Eric’s soft kiss that morning. “We’re better than fine. I just have a headache.”   
  
Franklin grinned. “Hit your head on the headboard?” he asked, then snickered. “God, you’re probably sore, too. I’m so tired of being jealous.” He gave Vince a shove. “Go on, go on, get your stuff together, I’ll see you at break.”  
  
With Franklin gone, Vince had no idea where to go – but he didn’t feel lost, now. He knew theaters. He walked down the hall, following the noise. A red-haired girl in a leotard smiled and slapped his ass as he walked past, saying, “Morning, sweetie,” and Vince grinned back at her.   
  
Things weren’t so bad, after all.   
  


* * *

  
  
He left the theater at 6. It was almost a relief to break back into the cold; the street around them was quiet, or made so by the frigid temperatures. Franklin, next to him, was just as silent. Vince had forgotten how grueling theater could be. He’d been lucky, in some ways – they weren’t off book yet, so he hadn’t had to worry about forgetting his lines, and his body seemed to know where he belonged on the stage. In that way, it was like every performance he’d ever done. He just turned it over to instinct, and things happened. He was playing a villain – not the lead role, which surprised him a little, but a meaty part. It was fun, actually, to play the bad guy for once, and Vince could see the things that would have called to him in the role.   
  
But he’d been off a bit, because it was impossible not to think, impossible to get out of the film mindset of long breaks, optional reshoots, all of that. So there had been a little bit of yelling and a lot of strange looks, and Vince felt like he’d been apologizing for eight hours straight.  
  
“I take it back,” Franklin muttered as they walked back uptown. “Maybe you should be on something.”  
  
Vince rubbed his forehead. He had the book in his jacket, ready to take home and study. There were tiny cryptic markings in his own hand all over the script, and he needed to memorize them all by the morning, or the director was going to shoot him.   
  
They took the same trains as before and got out at Queensboro Plaza. Franklin squinted at the sky. “It’s dark so fucking early now,” he said, shaking his head. “Listen, you want me to ride with you, walk you home?”   
  
Shit, Vince thought. He wasn’t sure if this was a come on or what. “Nah, I’m fine,” he said.   
  
Franklin raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure?”   
  
“I’m sure,” Vince said. “But thanks.”   
  
“Anytime, darling,” Franklin said, and then leaned in to kiss his cheeks, which caught Vince by surprise. He didn’t have time to dwell, though – his train was getting ready to leave. He staggered on board and found a seat – thank fucking God – and almost fell asleep before the Flushing stop.   
  
He experienced the same flurry of disorientation when he stepped off the platform there, but took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could picture his walk from the morning. Kissena, he thought, and stepped into the cold.   
  
The apartment was dark when he walked in, even though the door was unlocked – and oh, Vince thought, his stomach seizing, that was totally his fault. He’d left the place unlocked. He flicked on the light and gave a quick glance around. It didn’t look like anything was missing, but how could he be sure? He’d barely looked at the place that morning.   
  
Now, he took his time, standing by the door, still wearing his hat and coat against the apartment’s chill. There was one room, a living room/dining room combo with a tiny kitchen next to it. They had a denim-covered loveseat with tears in the arm, a worn oak coffee table, and a small – maybe 14” – television sitting on a stand that Vince realized used to be an end table at his mother’s house. The matching end table was next to the loveseat. Behind the TV, against the wall, was a small dining table – about 3 feet square – with two wooden chairs pushed up to it. Just behind the table, a bookshelf made from unfinished lumber and cinder blocks held a few books, a beat up CD player and a stack of CDs, and a few dozen DVDs. On the top, there was a spider plant – wilting – and a framed photo of Vince and Eric that Vince picked up. It was a nice photo, looked like it had been taken at a party, maybe: in it, Vince was kissing Eric’s cheek, his arms around Eric, and Eric had one arm around him, too, and was toasting the camera with a beer, a sweet, happy smile on his face.  
  
So they were together and they were out. That explained some things: the girls at the theater had been friendly, today, but not overly so. None of them had been truly flirtatious, and that was pretty off. Maybe they'd all met Eric. Maybe, in this world, Vince didn't show them any interest. It seemed possible, and Vince sort of liked the idea that he was that guy -- loyal, committed, not even willing to look beyond his partner. It was as good an explanation as any.  
  
Vince took a seat on the couch, nestling his cold hands under his legs to stay warm. Everything was neat, clean, orderly, but the place still felt shabby – probably because it was. The ceiling had water stains, the floor – which was wood – was uneven and creaky. Two throw rugs tried to cover that, but they were as effective as the tacked up band posters. This place was a dump, and it was probably breaking their bank just to stay here.   
  
A stack of mail sat on the coffee table, and Vince could guess what he’d see inside: unpaid bills. A small notebook with Eric’s cramped handwriting sat next to the envelopes, tallying their income and expenditures for the month. Vince winced, seeing V’s Mastercard was one of their biggest expenses. They were in debt. Of course.   
  
He wondered if Eric had gone to college. There were no textbooks on the bookshelves, just a few random manuals – Windows for Dummies and some technical manuals that Vince didn’t know. He sat forward to read the DVD cases, and saw that two were homemade – one said “VC Birthday – 2000” and the next was “Christmas 03.” Vince started to reach for them, but the sound of a key in the lock stopped him.  
  
“Hey,” Eric said, walking in. He hooked his keys by the door and turned, swung three locks across. “You forgot to lock the door.”   
  
Vince thought for a moment Eric meant that day, then realized Eric meant right now. This was New York. You locked your door when you walked in, first thing. “Shit, sorry,” he said, shaking his head.   
  
Eric shrugged. He dropped his hand on Vince’s shoulder, then walked into the kitchen. Vince heard the fridge open and close, heard the sound of a beer being opened. Eric walked back out and sat at the dining table. “You have a good day?”   
  
Vince shrugged. “OK,” he said. “You?”   
  
“Same shit, different day,” Eric said. He yawned. “I think, though, Grant’s really going to leave.”   
  
Eric seemed pleased about this, and Vince echoed his tone. “Yeah?”   
  
He nodded and took a sip of his beer – Miller Light. Christ. “I talked to Jones at lunch, I think there really might be a spot open off the floor.” He grinned. “God, wouldn’t that be nice. Nice little pay raise, too, an extra fifty cents an hour.”   
  
Vince tried to smile. “That sounds great, E.”   
  
“Yeah, well, we’ll see.” He rubbed his face. He looked tired in a way that Vince recognized – the same way their fathers used to look tired. Eric, what have I done to you? he thought, looking across at him. Eric caught his eye. “So what’s for dinner?”  
  
“Dinner?” Vince echoed. Eric raised his eyebrow. “Wait, was I supposed to –“ and he wasn’t even sure how to finish that sentence. Cook? Surely not. Pick something up? From where? Did they have a pattern?   
  
“Uh, yeah,” Eric said, and Vince sighed. “It’s your week, babe.”   
  
“I’m sorry. I didn’t – I just, I didn’t think about it,” Vince said.   
  
Eric rolled his eyes. “It’s a good thing you’re so pretty,” he said, “or I’d be tempted to find a guy who can cook.”   
  
“Yeah, good thing,” Vince said. It was weird to hear Eric call him pretty, weirder still when Eric set his beer down and motioned that Vince should come over to him. Vince crossed the room, feeling uncertain, but let Eric pull him down into his lap. It was an awkward fit, the top of Eric’s head barely coming to Vince’s shoulder, but Eric put both arms around him and rested his cheek against Vince’s chest. He tugged on Vince’s coat.   
  
“Lose the gear, stay awhile,” he said, and Vince laughed.   
  
“I was cold,” he said, resting his arms on Eric’s shoulders.   
  
Eric looked up. “I’ll keep you warm,” he said, and Vince smiled.   
  
“I’m sorry about dinner,” he said, cupping Eric’s face in his hand.   
  
“It’s all right,” Eric said. “I wasn’t that hungry, anyway.”   
  
Vince’s stomach registered its protest as he realized what Eric was saying. Because Vince hadn’t cooked, there would be no dinner. “We could get pizza or something,” Vince said, and Eric snorted.   
  
“What, did you win the lottery on the way home?” He shook his head. “I saw your lunch is still in the fridge, by the way.”   
  
“Yeah,” Vince said. “I forgot.” He'd paid $7.50 for a sandwich and hadn't even thought about it. He rested his head on top of Eric’s. “I’m having a weird day.”   
  
“I can tell,” Eric said. “You haven’t even given me the five minute Franklin wrap-up yet.”   
  
Vince groaned. “That guy never stops talking, huh?”   
  
“He still seeing the bitch from the Bronx?”   
  
“I have no idea,” Vince admitted.   
  
Eric laughed and squeezed him. “He’s your friend.”   
  
“But he has a crush on you.”   
  
“Mm.”   
  
Eventually, they got up, and Vince found his lunch – an apple, yogurt, and two turkey sandwiches in a paper bag – in the fridge and split it with Eric. They watched a little network TV sitting on the loveseat, then Vince got out his lines to review while Eric bent over his little notebook with their bills. So this is what we do at night? Vince thought, but he didn’t want to ask. Besides, he needed to study.  
  
Eric finally threw the notebook down as the nightly news came on, and he sunk back into the couch by Vince. Vince set his script down and put an arm around him. “How’s it look, boss?” he asked.   
  
“Same as always,” he said. “Shitty.”   
  
“I’m sorry,” Vince murmured. “That credit card balance is killing us, huh?”   
  
“Hey, you can’t help it,” Eric said. He touched Vince’s face, his fingers drawing a line across Vince’s forehead and cheek that tickled, just faintly. Eric kissed him. “You have a lot more to do? I thought you had that down.”   
  
“Just, uh, there were a few changes,” Vince said. Eric’s hand slipped up under his shirt, his fingers rubbed softly over Vince’s belly. “Nothing, really, I’m done,” he murmured, meeting Eric’s mouth and setting the script on the coffee table.   
  
Maybe it should have been weird to make out with Eric, but here, again, his current body had memories that Vince didn’t. Unlike acting, though, Vince stayed present for this, so that when he gasped as Eric put his mouth on Vince’s erection, it was real feeling, real surprise and desire; when he moaned as Eric slid back, it was real disappointment. Eric shook his head.   
  
“The floor is fucking freezing,” he said, laughing and getting up from his knees. “I’m sorry, baby, but we’re gonna have to move this to the bedroom.”   
  
Vince swallowed. “I don’t think I can move,” he said, letting his hand fall to his cock.   
  
Eric pulled his hand away and kissed it, and Vince stared at him, amazed and aroused. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he said.   
  
Vince swallowed, then nodded and stood up, holding his jeans with one hand. Eric turned off the light, so the apartment was cast in the orange glow of the streetlights and traffic below. “Brush your teeth, I’ll be there in a minute,” Eric said, disappearing into the kitchen, and Vince did as he was told. He shucked his jeans, then realized they were probably what he was wearing the next day, too, and so hung them over the chair as before. Then he went to the bathroom and reached for his toothbrush – and stopped.   
  
There was no steam to obscure the mirror, this time, nothing between him and the reflection of his face. His  _damaged_ face.  
  
He gasped, and the toothbrush fell into the sink. This face – this couldn’t be – but it was. It was him. It was his face, his eyes, his mouth, even his beard, which meant that it had to be his scar he was seeing, a jagged pink line running from the left side of his forehead down, around his eye, over his cheekbone and then down to his jaw. It was partially obscured by his beard – and now Vince wondered if that wasn’t the reason for it, not the role on stage – but it wasn’t hidden. It wasn’t something you could look past. He was – there was no other word for it – disfigured. His left eyebrow, when he tried to lift it, felt stiff, and he realized there was scar tissue there. And his nose was fucked up, too – crooked, with a bump on the bridge.   
  
What had happened? What the fuck – he swallowed, feeling dizzy, and gripped the sink, but couldn’t look away from his face. Was this the story? Was this what hadn’t worked in L.A.? Or had he never even made it?   
  
“Hey,” Eric said, putting his hand on Vince’s back, and Vince saw his eyes in the mirror – worried, sad, but not surprised. “Hey, stop,” he said, drawing Vince back and around. Vince was still shaky and stunned, and he folded into Eric’s embrace easily, pulled him close. “Come on, I thought we were past this,” Eric said, rubbing his back.   
  
“Caught me by surprise,” Vince said. His voice was all throat; he felt tears forming.   
  
Eric reached over and turned out the bathroom light, so they were in the dark again, the reflection now invisible. “It’s OK,” he said, still rubbing, still holding him. “You’re OK.”   
  
Vince nodded. He listened to Eric’s voice, pushed away his fear and panic. OK. This was all just a dream, or a fuck-up, anyway. He wasn’t really here. This wasn’t his real life. “I’m OK,” he said, and Eric looked up at him.   
  
“OK,” he said. He kissed Vince’s neck. “Come on, it’s freezing.”   
  
Vince sat on the bed, then crawled to the far side, near the wall, where he’d woken up that morning. Eric adjusted the alarm clock, then turned to him, propped himself up on one elbow. “Vin,” he said, and Vince looked up at him. There was concern and compassion in Eric’s eyes, and something else, a tiny bit of fear, that made Vince feel uncertain. What had happened? How could he find out? “Seriously, you’ve been doing so well,” he said. He turned on his side, pulled one of Vince’s hands up into his own. “What’s going on?”   
  
“Nothing,” Vince said. “I don’t know. Off day.”   
  
Eric nodded. He kissed Vince’s fingers. “As long as it’s just a day,” he said. “Baby, everything’s finally going good again, you know?” He looked up at Vince. “You remember what you said to me in the hospital?”   
  
Vince blinked. “Remind me.”  
  
“You said, ‘Now I’m never gonna be an actor.’ And I told you we’d get through this, right? I promised. And look. Look at you – you’ve made it, huh? Off-Broadway! You stick this out, once it opens – Vince, come on,” he said, and Vince realized he’d let his face slide, let himself express some of the dismay he was feeling.  
  
This was it? This was living the dream? Of course it was. Off-Broadway was, in fact, a great place to end up – most actors never made it that far. But – it wasn’t Hollywood. It wasn’t fans lining the block to catch a glimpse of his car, it wasn’t the new box office record, it wasn’t James Cameron making him an offer. It wasn’t even Billy Walsh. It might be a comfortable loft, after a few years, but it would never mean his picture on the front of  _Premiere_.  
  
He’d really thought that stuff didn’t matter to him, the toys, the money – but right now, he felt he’d give anything to have Ari on speed dial, to have a list of friends who would know exactly which plastic surgeon was his best hope.  
  
“Hey,” Eric said, and Vince looked down at him. Eric touched his face, the left cheek – the bad cheek – gently. “You’re scaring me.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Vince said. How bad had things been, that Eric was scared? Vince could guess. He swallowed. “Don’t worry.” He smiled, his best effort. “I was just – I was thinking about the hospital, I guess. Not this gig, I know it’s good. I’m happy,” he said, and Eric nodded. “I really am, E, I promise.”  
  
“OK,” Eric said, and Vince nodded and kissed him.  
  
“OK,” he agreed. “See? Happy.”  
  
Eric smiled. “Not as happy as you were earlier,” he said, and his thigh slid between Vince’s legs.   
  
“That wouldn’t take much work,” Vince assured him, as Eric kissed him. Well, this life has its advantages, too, Vince thought, sliding Eric’s shirt off, his hands tracing the musculature of his back. “You’re so hot,” Vince whispered, and Eric laughed.  
  
“You’re gonna get laid without the compliments,” Eric said, helping Vince shimmy out of his shorts. “But it’s nice to be noticed.”  
  
“I always notice you,” Vince said, and then gasped when Eric fisted his cock. “Oh, Jesus.”  
  
“Touchy today,” Eric said, grinning. “I like it.”  
  
Eric also, apparently, liked going down on him, which Vince was totally in favor of, and he liked fucking him, which, again, Vince could not vote against. He came with his head arched back against the pillow and Eric gasping into his shoulder; then he wrapped Eric up in his arms and fell asleep wondering if maybe this was a fair trade off, after all.  
  
The next day started just as cold and just as early, but Vince was less foggy. He remembered his lunch, which he realized Eric had packed last night, and his keys, locked the door, made it to the station on time. He listened to Franklin talk – he was still dating “the bitch from the Bronx,” whose name was Kenneth – and thought about his lines, the blocking, the notes he’d memorized the night before. That was safer than wondering if anyone was staring at him. Usually, attention didn’t bother him – but usually, people looked because they recognized him, not because they were wondering where the scars had come from.  
  
Rehearsal went better, so when he left the theater at 6, he was just as wrung out as the day before but not so dispirited. Back in the apartment, he found boxed spaghetti and canned tomatoes and directions for making a simple enough sauce. He followed the directions to get it all cooking, using the only two pans he could find, and wondered, for the first time, where the guys were. Where was Johnny? Turtle? He looked at his phone, found numbers for both – including an L.A. number for his brother. He considered calling it, but decided maybe he should try to get some details out of Eric first.  
  
Eric came home around 7:30, looking really tired, and sat at the dining table with a beer while Vince poured the spaghetti and sauce into bowls. He’d even found some canned parmesan in the refrigerator, which Eric poured liberally into his bowl. The sauce was a little bitter, but Vince felt proud of it, anyway.  
  
He made an effort to talk brightly over dinner about his day, about Franklin, the theater, how good things were, and he watched Eric’s mood lift as Vince kept going. So this is how we work, he thought, as Eric laughed at Vince’s impression of Franklin on the train.  
  
“You wanna do something this weekend?” Vince asked after he’d cleared the dishes. He put his hands on Eric’s shoulders and rubbed, and Eric groaned.  
  
“Anything,” Eric said, “if you’ll keep doing that.”  
  
“Maybe a movie?” Vince asked. “A matinee?”  
  
“Or a second-run,” Eric said. “Sunday, though. Don’t forget Turtle’s coming over tomorrow.”  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Vince said, trying to sound casual when he was thinking: yes! Turtle he could pump for information.  
  
Eric’s head tipped back, and he looked straight up at Vince. “You promised me,” he said, and Vince blinked. “Whatever he’s doing – you gotta stay away. Right?”  
  
“I know,” Vince said. Maybe this was what Franklin had been talking about. Vince kissed Eric’s forehead. “I swear.”  
  
“OK.”  
  
“God, you’re in knots,” Vince said, and Eric groaned again. He bent forward, resting his head on the table while Vince worked on a particularly hard ball beneath his shoulder.  
  
“I really want this promotion,” he said. “If I never have to haul another box, babe, it’s too soon.”  
  
Vince kissed the nape of Eric’s neck. He wondered what had happened to the Sbarro’s job, what had happened to college, all of Eric’s plans. How the fuck, if Vince was still doing theater, had Eric been sucked back into the warehouse world their fathers had fought to escape? “Come lie down, relax,” he said, and after a moment Eric agreed. He put his head in Vince’s lap on the couch, kicked his feet up over the arm, and they watched TV for a while. Eric closed his eyes and held one of Vince’s hands in his own. It should have been boring, but it wasn’t – it was kind of nice. Every few minutes, Vince laughed at something on TV and then watched Eric smile in response. As the commercials rolled, Eric made cracks about the products or the shows, and Vince was glad, so glad, to see he was really the same old Eric, under there. Sharp and sarcastic and sweet.  
  
When the news came on, Vince nudged him toward bed, and Eric went willingly. They brushed their teeth at the same time, Vince keeping his eyes averted from the mirror, and then curled up together in bed. Eric kissed him before he turned out the lights. “I love you,” he said, and Vince smiled.  
  
“I love you, too.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning there was no alarm, and no rush to meet Franklin. Eric woke him with a kiss, and they made love leisurely under the blankets, Eric above him and around him the sexiest thing Vince had maybe ever experienced. He could understand, now, how this Vince could cope – it wouldn’t be such a bad life, to just see himself reflected in Eric’s eyes all the time, instead of in the mirror, in the press. Off-Broadway was probably a pretty good dream for him; a long run might mean enough money to get Eric out of the warehouses, it might mean enough stability to erase some of that exhaustion from his eyes.  
  
They cleaned up and had lunch at the tiny table – sandwiches, which Eric made while Vince reviewed his book – and around two, there was a heavy knock on the door.  
  
“Jesus,” Turtle said, huffing, when Eric answered the door. “If you guys could get just one more flight up.”  
  
“We’ll work on it, for you,” Eric said, letting him in.  
  
Vince had a moment of panic, because he had no idea how to act around Turtle. Did he know about him and Eric? Then he nearly laughed out loud, because – of course he knew. There was only one bed.  
  
“Hey, pal,” Turtle said, cuffing Vince on the shoulder. “You’re looking all right.”  
  
“You, too,” Vince said, though it wasn’t really true. Turtle looked – well, hardly like Turtle at all. His hat was scruffy, his beard rough. He’d always been a broader guy, but now he was just plain fat, Vince thought, a little shocked. He was wearing jeans and an oversized T-shirt with matching holes; his coat was leather, but not good quality, and his white sneakers were grayed and frayed – maybe not a big deal on anyone else, but for Turtle, shoes had always been a source of pride, something to care for. He had a cigarette burning between his fingers, and Vince watched Eric wince at the sight. Turtle took a seat on the couch, and Vince sat next to him. “How you been, man?”  
  
Turtle shrugged. “Fucking killer cold out, huh? Damn near froze my balls off going to work yesterday.”  
  
“Yeah?” Eric had disappeared into the kitchen, so Vince asked, tentatively, “Uh, how’s that going?”  
  
He shrugged. “All right. Why, you lookin’? They’re always ready to hire more drivers. You gotta have two weeks clean, though, or it comes through on the test.”  
  
Eric walked back in, carrying an empty saucer, which he set on the arm of the couch by Turtle. “Someday they’re gonna figure you out,” he said.  
  
Turtle shrugged. “Half the guys there drive stoned,” he said. “It’s what gets us through the day, man. We can’t all survive on the courage of our convictions.”  
  
There was an ugly tension in the room, suddenly, and Vince shifted on the couch. Eric was staring daggers at Turtle.  
  
“How’s your kid?” Eric said, crossing his arms. He took a seat at the dining table, crossed his legs, and Vince focused on that so Turtle wouldn’t see him gaping. Turtle – a kid?  
  
“Fine enough,” Turtle said. “Vicki’s got her locked away in Far Rockaway. They wanna supervise my visits or some shit, after that last hearing. Fuck that, I say.”  
  
Eric’s look was so full of disdain that Vince hoped Turtle didn’t look up. “Uh, that sucks, man,” he said.  
  
“Whatever, she wants to find me, she knows where I am,” Turtle said. “Where’m I goin’, right?”  
  
“Right,” Eric said.  
  
Turtle glanced up, and his disdain was almost equal to Eric’s. Vince started to wonder if they might break down and fight, and his stomach felt sore. Without turning away from Eric, Turtle said, “Vin, I think my smoke’s bothering the missus. What’s say we go up top for a bit before the game starts?”  
  
Vince cast a glance at Eric, who looked ready to throttle them both. “OK,” he said, nodding. As Turtle stood, though, he crossed over and kissed Eric’s temple. “Fifteen minutes,” he whispered. “Then come get me.”  
  
Eric nodded and looked appeased as Vince followed Turtle into the hall. They climbed the stairs to the roof, Turtle huffing and pausing on each landing. The top of their building was lower than those around it, so they had no real view except the sides of other buildings, but the wind was blocked. Vince leaned against the edge wall, watched Turtle catching his breath near the door.  
  
“Can I ask you something?” Vince said, when Turtle walked over. He turned down the joint with a wave of his hand, and Turtle gave him a surprised look.  
  
“You’re really letting him run the show now, huh?”  
  
“I promised,” Vince said.  
  
Turtle grunted and took a long drag. Vince wondered how much he’d had before he came. He wondered if pot was all Turtle did, and decided probably not, if they were keeping his kid away from him.  
  
“So what’d you want to ask?” Turtle said, looking over.  
  
Vince swallowed. He hoped Turtle was baked. “Were you – what do you remember, about when I got this?” he said, tapping his face.   
  
Turtle narrowed his eyes. “Why?”  
  
“I just – we never talked about it,” Vince said, taking a wild guess.  
  
“Huh.” Turtle blew a lop-sided smoke ring. “I don’t know. That whole weekend was kind of a loss for me, I guess. I was at Vicki’s when E called.”  
  
“Yeah? To let you know --”  
  
Turtle shook his head. “Saying you hadn’t come home, where the fuck were you, that kind of shit,” he said. He lit the joint again. “Man, you don’t remember?”  
  
“It’s fuzzy,” Vince said.  
  
“Yeah. I can see that.” He looked out at the building across the way as he talked. “So we met up at the station, we were just gonna walk your route home or something. E had this plan, like, you go this way, you go that – but we hadn’t really even gotten past the corner before Drama saw you.”  
  
“Johnny?”  
  
Turtle nodded. “He, like, carried you out? I guess you were pretty knocked out. E freaked, of course, typical. Couldn’t find a cab, nobody had a car. I thought we were gonna have to carry you to the hospital, but E finally got a guy in the corner store to call for help. Bitched Drama out for moving you, like we should’ve left you in the alley.”  
  
Jesus, Vince thought. He touched his face again. He wanted to know what had happened, and he didn’t want to know. He couldn’t remember it, it could be a bit like it had never happened.  
  
“There was so much fucking blood,” Turtle said, gripping the wall. “I didn’t – honest to God, I didn’t know if you were still alive.”  
  
Vince could barely choke out the question. “Then what?”  
  
He shrugged. “We got you to the hospital. How long were you there, like a couple days? I remember your ma even came out, and she and E got into a huge match in the hallway.”  
  
“They fought?”  
  
“What’s with you, man, you hit your head or something?” Turtle shook his head. “Did they fight. Jesus.”  
  
Vince rubbed his face with his hands. Time was running short. Eric would be up there any minute; he needed to get the full story. “Look, if I tell you something – can you not mention it to E?”   
  
Turtle grinned. “My favorite kind of story,” he said.   
  
“OK,” Vince said, and then he told him everything, as fast as he could: the kid, the time traveling, and his lack of memories. Turtle’s face didn’t change through the whole thing, just stayed in a vaguely amused smirk. When Vince finished and said, “So I don’t remember shit, and I need to know what I’ve missed,” Turtle lit a cigarette.   
  
“That is one fucking crazy trip,” he said, and when Vince sighed, Turtle said, “No, man, it’s cool, I won’t tell him. I had some weird blackouts, too. And, uh, sure, you bet, I can fill you in. But you gotta do me a favor, too.”  
  
“Anything,” Vince said, and then realized he was no longer in a position to promise anything. If Turtle wanted money, he was fucked.  
  
But Turtle just swallowed. “I gotta like go out to Far Rockaway next week. Or, I mean, I was going to. It’s Penny’s birthday, I got her, like, this little horse thing she wanted? Anyway –“ He paused to take a drag. “Would you, like, maybe you could come with me. That social worker, she makes me crazy nervous, especially because I can’t go high, you know.”  
  
“Sure,” Vince said, putting his hand on Turtle’s shoulder. Turtle, who in L.A. couldn’t even get laid, but who had clean clothes and no daughter to worry about, no social worker to be afraid of. What did I do to you, man? Vince thought. How many ways did I let you down? “I’d be happy to, Turtle.”  
  
“All right. Thanks.” Turtle managed a little smile. “So, a quick history, huh? All right.”  
  
By the time Eric came up, Vince had the basics of his own story down: he’d never gone to L.A., had, in fact, fulfilled his own wish and chosen to stay with Eric. He’d actually gone a bit overboard and started fucking Eric his senior year, which had led to both of them getting kicked out of the house just shy of graduation. They’d crashed with Johnny for a while, apparently – or possibly in his car, Turtle wasn’t sure – until they’d managed to get enough together for the apartment. Things had been OK, it sounded like – Eric had made manager at Sbarro, Vince had been doing pretty well with community theater parts, had a line on an audition for “The Sopranos” – until Vince had been attacked a couple years ago. That’s what Turtle called it, the attack. He’d been jumped on the way home from the Subway, beaten badly, his face bruised up and cut – and Turtle was a little iffy on the details, in a way that made Vince wonder if there wasn’t more, if there hadn’t been a sexual element to the crime. That, he decided, he didn’t want to know.  
  
He’d been in the hospital for four days, and probably should have stayed longer, but they had no insurance and he’d maxed out his only credit card trying to pay the bills. “You had, like, I think it was eight broken bones,” Turtle said, shaking his head, and Vince winced. “Like, your arm and wrist, and uh, some ribs, and – I don’t know. Other stuff.” Turtle shrugged.  
  
“My nose,” Vince said.  
  
“Yeah. They said – I remember – they said it was probably lucky you didn’t drown in your own blood.” Turtle took a drag. “Nightmare stuff, man.”  
  
The pain was pretty bad, apparently, because after he’d been home awhile – after Eric had quit his job to stay home and take care of him, and then had to take a warehouse job to make enough to get them by – Vince had developed some kind of pain killer addiction.  
  
“You didn’t get that stuff from me, except maybe two, three times,” Turtle said, “but he thinks I started it.”  
  
“That’s why you guys fight,” Vince said, nodding.  
  
“That’s part of it,” Turtle said. “Fuck, truth is, I think it’s sort of fucked up how you guys are. If we’re being all honest.”  
  
Vince nodded. “I appreciate the honesty,” he said. He looked up and saw Eric walking across the roof toward them, his eyes narrowed, and it suddenly became deeply important that Eric knew he hadn’t touched even a cigarette. Vince stepped forward, grabbed him by the biceps, and kissed him; Eric’s shoulders stiffened in surprise, then he seemed to realize what was happening and eased into it. When Vince drew back, Eric licked his own lips.  
  
“You OK?” he asked.  
  
“I’m fine,” Vince said. He kept one hand on Eric’s arm. “We were just, uh, you know. Talking about old times.”  
  
Turtle laughed. “Did you really live in Drama’s car after your ma kicked you out?” he asked.  
  
“That was one night,” Eric said. He rubbed Vince’s back with one hand. “We were at my sister’s place for a while.”  
  
“Oh yeah,” Vince said, nodding, like he remembered. “It’s weird, it seems like a long time ago, huh?”  
  
“More than ten years,” Eric said. “Listen, you guys want to order a pizza or something?”  
  
Vince raised an eyebrow. “You win the lottery?” he asked, and Eric grinned.  
  
“I did, actually,” he said, pulling a twenty out of his pocket. “Put a dollar on a scratch-off at lunch yesterday.”  
  
“Gambling, E, wow,” Turtle said. “I feel kind of proud.” He stubbed his cigarette out on the concrete wall. “Free pizza, all right.”  
  
They shuffled back downstairs and found the Knicks game on TV. Eric called for pizza and then donned a jacket to run out and get it. Vince was nervous the whole time he was gone – if someone had hurt him, in this world, surely Eric was at risk, too – and Turtle finally said, “Stop fidgeting, man, or I’m gonna cram this joint down your throat.” He shook his head. “E can handle himself.”  
  
Vince remembered the muscle of his arms, the strength in his hands. He felt a little better, even if he didn’t like the implication:  _E can handle himself, unlike you_.  
  
Eric came back just fine, and Vince gave him the seat next to Turtle on sofa, then sat at his feet, leaning against his legs. It wasn’t the view that he was used to – the tiny television was hardly worth watching, so it was more like listening to a game on the radio – but they had a good time. Eric and Turtle united in their hatred of the referees, and Vince got sleepy, full of pizza and warm resting against Eric. He stirred to say good-night to Turtle, promised to join him on the trip to Far Rockaway the next week – “I’ll call, say Tuesday?” – and then locked up.   
  
Eric was sitting on the couch, looking at him with a puzzled expression. “Rockaway?”  
  
Vince nodded. He sat on the arm of the love seat, looking down at him. “He wants to go see Penny, I said I’d chaperone.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“What, you don’t trust me?”  
  
“I trust you,” Eric said quickly. “Honest.”  
  
Vince nodded. He could tell that wasn’t quite true, but it sounded like maybe Eric was justified. “You can come, too,” he said, and Eric snorted.  
  
“I don’t think Turtle would extend that invite,” he said.  
  
Vince shrugged. “Anywhere I go, you go. That’s the deal, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Eric said, softly, and he touched the side of Vince’s leg. “That’s the deal.”  
  
They cleaned up the pizza – Eric claimed the leftover slice for his lunch – and then got ready for bed. Vince studied his reflection surreptitiously, thought about what Eric would have gone through, seeing him hurt. He thought about the fear that might follow that kind of attack, wondered how this Vince made it home from the Subway every night still – and then realized, oh, Franklin’s offer.  _You want me to walk you home?_  It wasn’t a come-on, it was concern. He was more fragile than he’d thought.  
  
He walked into the bedroom and found Eric staring up at him from the bed. Vince crawled into his spot and turned to face him. “You OK?” he asked. Eric shrugged. “Come on, E. What’s up?”  
  
“I was thinking,” he said.  
  
"So tell me," Vince said, rubbing his hand up Eric's biceps. God, it was so nice, this closeness; he felt like he'd been doing this for years, like lying here with Eric was the most normal, natural thing in the world.  
  
“I love you," he said, and his voice was quiet, almost desperate. "OK? " Vince nodded. "I just – if we’re headed back down the rabbit hole, Vin, I gotta know. I’m not – I’m not saying, I know it’s been hard on you, I’m not – but we just got back on our feet, you know?” Eric swallowed. “You’d tell me, if something was wrong, if you were feeling bad again, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Vince said. “E, I swear, I’m OK.” He leaned over, kissed him, settled his head against Eric’s chest. “I’m sorry if I’ve worried you. I didn’t mean to. I just – I had this weird dream,” he said, uncertainly.  
  
Eric stroked his hair. “Yeah? What was that?”  
  
Vince closed his eyes. “We lived in L.A.,” he said, and heard Eric laugh. “In a huge house. You, and me, and Turtle. And Johnny, sometimes.”  
  
“And what’d we do?”  
  
“I was in the movies,” Vince said. “And you were my manager.”  
  
“Manager, huh?” Eric rubbed his shoulder. “What’s a movie manager do?”  
  
“Makes decisions,” Vince said. He looked up at Eric. “You were so good at it, E. You were – amazing. You got me these roles, you – “ Vince shook his head. “You made all my decisions.”  
  
Eric smiled. “How’s that different from now?”   
  
“You got paid for it,” Vince said, and Eric laughed again.   
  
“Sounds like a nice dream,” he said, and Vince nodded and lowered his head again. “You still think about California?”  
  
“No,” Vince lied, because he knew it was what this Eric needed to hear. It was what this Vince needed to believe. He had no one to blame but himself, of course.  
  
“I do, sometimes,” Eric said, and Vince was surprised. He heard something unsteady in Eric’s voice, and didn’t look up. “I mean, what if I’d listened to you, you know? What if I’d gone along, just split after we were kicked out, or later when Drama went?” He sighed. “Things could’ve been different, I guess.”  
  
Vince looked up, met his eyes, kissed him softly. “Bad things could’ve happened out there, too,” he said, and as he said it, he really believed it. Everything he had – everything he had had, in California, in that life, it was all luck. It was all just good timing, being in the right place at the right time. There were good decisions in there, too, but at the end of the day, he was as much responsible for his major successes, in the life he knew, as this kid was responsible for the one bad day when someone hadn’t liked the way he was walking leaving the Subway. And it wasn’t Eric’s fault, in either world. “I love you. I wouldn’t want anything to be different, all right?”  
  
“All right,” Eric said. He held him close, rubbed his back, kissed his head. “I love you, too,” he said. His heartbeat was the last thing Vince heard before he fell asleep.  
  


* * *

  
  
It went like that for a month. Vince faked his way through a variety of situations simply by acting a little shy, which, apparently, was already a tried-and-true character trait of this Vince, anyway. The scar on his face had affected his outgoing nature, he could tell; it had also made Eric more tender, a little kinder, and a lot more protective. On the whole, not a bad combination. He missed his old world, but he still had a feeling he’d be going back there, so he didn’t let himself think about it too much. Instead, he concentrated on just keeping up with the new life.  
  
The night before the play opened, Vince brought Eric his ticket in a sealed envelope. It was Eric’s turn to cook, that week, and they were having his specialty, very tomatoey sloppy Joes and green beans. Not that bad, though Vince was dying for a steak. He was really hoping Eric would decide the play called for a celebration dinner.  
  
“Oh, man,” Eric said, shaking two tickets from the envelope. “Kinda late to mail it, huh?”  
  
“What’s that?” Vince asked, or tried to, with his mouth full of sandwich.  
  
Eric held up the second ticket. “You want me to take it to her tomorrow? I could slide it in the mail slot, probably.”  
  
“Take it to who?”  
  
Eric rolled his eyes. “Your ma. Unless you already sent her one.”  
  
Vince shook his head. He had — or thought he had — a better grasp on this all now, too. His mother had apparently gone apeshit when she’d caught Vince and Eric together in high school, and instead of letting things cool off, Eric had gone to battle with her, right there and then. Turtle said she’d accused Eric of corrupting Vince, or Vince of pitying Eric, and threatened to turn them both over to the police (on exactly what charges, Turtle was hazy). He also said that the Murphys, with whom Eric rarely spoke anymore, were also not on speaking terms with Vince’s mother, based on whatever had happened.  
  
Vince couldn’t imagine why he was supposed to send his mother a ticket. “Why would I do that?”  
  
Eric set the ticket down. “Because you have for every other show,” he said. “Look, it’s OK. I get it. I can play nice if she can. I know it would mean a lot to you if —”  
  
“But she’s never shown,” Vince said, and even though he meant it as a question, it came out flat, a statement. He knew the answer. Eric looked down, pain visible on his face. “Hey,” Vince said, putting his hand over Eric’s, “why would I waste my ticket? I want people who support me to be there.” He lifted Eric’s hand, kissed his fingers. It didn’t feel weird; it was apparently the kind of thing they did all the time. “I want you there, that’s all that matters to me.” Eric looked up, smiled a little, and Vince smiled back. “Maybe you can sell it out front.”  
  
“Or I might invite my sister,” Eric said. “If that’s all right.”  
  
“I’d love to see her,” Vince said.  
  
In truth, he would’ve loved to see anyone in the audience. He would’ve loved to see Ari. The play was good — no, really, it was nearly great. The other actors were solid, the story was fantastic, they had all been hitting their marks with precision over the last few days. Vince ended each rehearsal exhausted but exhilarated. He just hoped the reviewers were as taken with everything as he was. So far, at least, the play had some decent opening buzz. What they needed were packed houses. What he needed was the security of a good, long run.  
  
On opening night, there were roses in his shared dressing room — a box of them, not arranged but still lovely, with Eric’s quick scrawl on the card. His sister had sent her regrets because one of her kids was sick; she’d also sent a small arrangement, so there were no hard feelings. Vince looked at his flowers and smiled. “We get to actually meet your man tonight, right?” Alice, one of the girls who shared the space with him, asked.  
  
He finished buttoning his shirt. “I’ll bring him back after,” he said.  
  
“Honey, he is divine,” Franklin purred. “Wait until you see his ass.”  
  
“Hey, he’s got a nice face, too,” Vince objected.  
  
Franklin laughed. “In this business, everyone’s got a nice face,” he said. “But arms like your man’s, those are a gift from  _God_.”  
  
Vince grinned. He understood, too, why Franklin was such a close friend of his — the guy treated him just like anybody else. They made jokes about beauty, about drugs, about each other’s lack of talent — all of the stuff that everyone else seemed to think was off-limits with Vince. The rest of the world, Eric sometimes included, treated him a bit like he was made from glass. Which, fine, Vince knew that this Vince was a little fragile, still, and he thought that was perfectly normal, understandable. But the fact that he was friends with Franklin said a lot for him. He was down, but he was making a big come back.  
  
“Five minutes,” someone yelled, and Vince slid on his coat. He adjusted his hat in the mirror, taking a good look at his scarred face, but lingering mostly on his own eyes. He could do this. It would be a great show.  
  
And it was.  
  
Afterwards, after three curtain calls and even the director’s bow on stage, Eric found him by the back door and Vince pulled him through. It was one of the first times they’d been anywhere together where people they knew could see them. Vince felt extremely proud — of himself, for his performance, and of Eric, as his boyfriend. After he introduced Alice, she leaned around and peeked at his ass, then gave a thumbs up. Vince laughed when Eric blushed.  
  
“You’re so hot,” he said, pulling Eric down next to him on a small settee. “Didn’t I tell you?”  
  
“You’re hot,” Eric murmured, drawing Vince close for a kiss. “You were the hottest thing out there. You think they’d ever let you wear that hat home?”  
  
Vince laughed, and let Eric kiss him a bit more, growling his best villain growl in between kisses until someone slapped him on the knee.  
  
“Enough flaunting,” Franklin said, and Vince pulled back, feeling a little kiss-dazed. “Get your fine ass in street clothes so we can hit this damn party. I’m starving.” His expression changed quickly, dramatically, into an over-charming smile. “Heeeey, E.”  
  
“Hey, Frankie,” Eric said, and his grin was absolutely predatory.  
  
“I’ll leave you two,” Vince said, and let the boys play while he changed clothes. It was a zoo in the dressing room, girls getting their costumes put away, flowers strewn everywhere, make-up remover by the gallon, but Vince managed to find his street clothes in the drawer where he’d tucked them before the show. He ducked to the side of the big mirror to dress, and saw Alice taking off her fake eyelashes in the corner. She was uncharacteristically quiet, particularly considering the ruckus around them. She looked tired, not wired, a dramatic change from just a few minutes before. After Vince had his pants on, he crossed to her, pulling his T-shirt over his head as he went.  
  
“What’s the word?” he asked. “Going to the party?”  
  
“Eh,” Alice said, rubbing her face with a cloth. “Not really in the mood.”  
  
Vince caught her eye in the mirror. “Why not, honey? You were marvelous tonight.”  
  
“The guy from the Post didn’t think so,” she said.  
  
“There can’t be a review —”  
  
“He left at intermission,” she said.  
  
Vince felt a little flutter of nausea and sat next to her. “Seriously?” he said, as though he couldn’t read it on her face.  
  
Alice looked over and shrugged. “That’s what the ushers said. It doesn’t look good.” She put her hand on Vince’s leg when he gripped the counter. “Keep it on the DL, all right? No sense everyone getting down before the papers come out.”  
  
“Sure,” he said. He swallowed. “You really think he hated it that much?”  
  
She rolled her eyes. “I doubt it was a family emergency,” she said.  
  
Vince nodded, accepted a kiss on the cheek as Alice stood to leave, and then staggered back toward Eric and Franklin. A bad review? Really? He was stunned, but little pieces were coming together in his head: all of his doubts were finding top billing, suddenly. The lead actor didn’t project well; the actress had missed two of her cues in the second act, one of which he’d had to cover for; the lighting was uninspired; the whole story was retreading old ground. By the time he saw Eric, he was writing the bad review himself.  
  
Eric was in the middle of conversation with Franklin. “I might even spring for a night out.”  
  
“Oh, see, this is why it would never work between us,” Franklin said. “A night out — is that the first one this month? I could not  _handle_  that kind of homebody-ness.”  
  
Eric laughed. “We make pretty good use of our home time.”  
  
Franklin rolled his eyes. “Well, now that we’re both going to be rich and famous, you should try and make it out of the house more often. Live a little, gentlemen.”  
  
Vince stopped next to Eric and rested his hand on Eric’s shoulder. “You ready?” Eric asked, looking up. “Hey, you all right?”  
  
“Fine,” Vince said, aware of Franklin staring at them. He forced a smile. “Let’s go.”  
  
The party consisted of finger foods and beer in the director’s loft. The director — Yann — made only a brief appearance before disappearing; Vince guessed that meant he’d heard about the guy from the  _Post_.  
  
Most of the other cast members, though, seemed clueless; everyone was talking in the optimistic language that Vince himself had been using until he’d talked to Alice. “To a nice long run,” someone said, raising a glass, and the whole room drank along.  
  
Even Eric seemed happier than usual, which was nice, because he didn’t seem to be catching onto Vince’s mood. They were making small talk with the assistant director and her girlfriend when the girlfriend said, “God, I can’t even wait to see the reviews. I bet they’ll be fucking laudatory, especially your parts, Vince.”  
  
“Isn’t he great?” Eric said, his hand rubbing Vince’s back. “I keep telling him.”  
  
“I’m going to get another drink,” Vince said, and barely remembered to smile to soften his swift exit.  
  
He found another drink, and then wandered onto the balcony, where one of the crew members was just finishing a cigarette. He offered one to Vince but he declined, and just stood silently, looking up at the amber sky. The last month had been good, really, good enough that he’d forgotten how easy his other life was. The bad parts of their life — the lack of money, the shitty apartment, the strained relationships with their friends and family — all of that had been balanced by the good, his relationship with Eric and the promise of better things to come once the play opened. Now, all of that promise was gone, and he could see only a sea of desperation ahead: things would get worse, instead of better. The play would fail. He’d have to find other work — probably not acting. His stomach turned and tightened, and he took a big swallow of his drink. There was no escape.  
  
He felt a hand on his back, and looked down at Eric.  
  
“What’s up?” Eric said, turning Vince to face him. “You all right?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Vince said. He sighed, then told Eric what Alice had said. His voice broke when he said, “I know we were counting on this —”  
  
“Hey,” Eric said, and put his arms around him. Vince set his drink on the ledge so he could embrace Eric, cling to him a little. It did make him feel better, somehow. “OK. Yeah, it’s a disappointment, but — we’re gonna get through this. We’ll think of something, babe, all right?”  
  
“Can we just go home?” Vince asked, his mouth against Eric’s temple.  
  
“Sure,” Eric said, and ten minutes later, they were walking to the Subway. Eric held his hand as they walked, something they rarely ever did but a gesture that Vince appreciated. When they got back to the apartment, Vince turned off his phone and fell onto the couch, and Eric made them each a drink out of the single bottle of whiskey they had in the kitchen cabinet. “Come on, drink up,” he said, and Vince did as ordered. “We’re still gonna celebrate,” Eric said, rubbing his fingers through Vince’s hair. “Because whatever that prick says, you were amazing tonight.”  
  
Vince looked up at him. Whatever he thought of this world, he’d always believed what Eric said. Even if this Eric wasn’t quite the expert on performance that his Eric was, he didn’t need to stop taking his word for things. “Thank you, baby,” he said, kissing Eric’s neck.  
  
Eric slid his hand up Vince’s thigh. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said. “We’re gonna go back to our bed and celebrate your greatness in the excellent style in which we celebrate everything, for several hours.”  
  
“Oh yeah?” Vince said.  
  
“Yeah. And then, after you’re in a tiny thought-free puddle in the sheets, I’m gonna run out and get those reviews and we’re gonna read ‘em and burn ‘em if we have to.”  
  
“OK,” Vince said, sucking gently on the skin behind Eric’s ear.  
  
“You didn’t hear anything past sex, did you?”  
  
Vince lifted Eric’s hand to his crotch. “Should I have?”  
  
“Why should today be any different?”  
  
They followed Eric’s plan to the letter. Vince fell asleep with his head on Eric’s chest, and woke up snuggled up to a pillow, to the sound of the apartment door closing. He called out but heard no response, which meant Eric had gone looking for the newspapers. Vince lay back quietly for a bit. He knew he should be worried about the review, but all he could think of, at that moment, was Eric’s tenderness the night before, the care that he’d taken in distracting Vince from all of his other worries. “Fuck,” Vince murmured, rubbing his belly. He really did love Eric. Even if he was going to be working at Burger King next week, at least he’d have this to come home to.  
  
He found a robe and pulled it on, not bothering to tie it, and found his way to the kitchen. By the time Eric walked back in, Vince had coffee made and was pulling four pieces of cinnamon toast out of the oven. “Hey,” he said, turning around.  
  
Eric laughed. “Uh, morning,” he said, setting a little stack of newspapers on their dining table. “You forget your shorts?”  
  
Vince smirked and turned back to the counter, adding sugar to his cup. “You seeing anything you haven’t before?”  
  
“No,” Eric said, and his arms slid around Vince from behind. He picked up the belt and tied the robe. “But it’s as distracting as ever.”  
  
He smelled like the cold air outside, and underneath, a bit like sex and sweat. Vince kissed Eric’s neck. “Let’s eat breakfast in bed.”  
  
“All right.”  
  
Vince chose not to take Eric’s easy acquiescence as a bad sign. Maybe he hadn’t read the reviews yet, even though the papers looked like they’d been rifled through. He shuffled the toast onto a plate and Eric took their coffee cups. In the bedroom, he dropped the newspapers in a heap on the floor before settling against the headboard for breakfast.  
  
Vince tried to eat his toast but his eyes were stuck on the papers. “OK,” he said, finally, when Eric had finished his first piece. “Just tell me.”  
  
“Tell you what?” Eric asked, his expression mock-innocent. “That this toast is awesome? Seriously, babe, if this acting thing doesn’t work out, maybe culinary school —”  
  
“Don’t even joke, E,” Vince said, and Eric laughed.  
  
“They loved you,” he said, setting his coffee mug on the night stand.  
  
Vince blinked. “What?”  
  
Eric grinned. “All three of them. Loved you. Liked the play, but loved you. I think the one from the Post called you a revelation.”  
  
“Oh my  _God_.” Vince gasped, then pushed Eric over and looked right down into his eyes. “You’re not kidding?”  
  
“No way,” Eric said, putting his hands on Vince’s waist. “I wouldn’t joke about this.” He smiled, and he looked proud and pleased and absolutely delighted, and that’s what made it sink in for Vince. “You’re a hit, Vince. You’re a real star.”  
  
Vince kissed him. “Thank you,” he whispered, his forehead against Eric’s.  
  
“Don’t thank me,” Eric said, but he didn’t protest when Vince went down on him.  
  
They went out that afternoon to do laundry, and Vince read the reviews for a second time sitting in front of a dryer. They really were nice reviews — the  _Post_  reviewer was actually a woman, so Alice’s story was apparently completely wrong — and Vince turned his phone back and found two squealing messages from Franklin that confirmed his own read of things. They were in for a good run, if these reviews were true. Oh, he hoped they drew people in.  
  
On the way back to the apartment, Vince stopped to pick up another copy of the  _Post_. “Jesus, what, are we going to wallpaper with them?” Eric asked, holding their big bag of laundry.  
  
Vince shook his head and grinned. “No, we’re not keeping this one,” he said. “I’m sending it to my mother.”  
  
Back at the apartment, Eric insisted on calling him Superstar all night, and Vince couldn’t help how much he loved it. Other than that, though, it was a pretty normal night: they had dinner (Eric cooked), they watched some TV, they got ready for bed. Only when Vince walked in to climb into bed next to Eric, he saw Eric reading the review out of the _Village Voice_  again, and he looked so much like the Eric that Vince knew in California that he paused.  
  
“I don’t know how I feel about this guy commenting on your sex appeal,” Eric said without looking up.  
  
Vince leaned against the door, just looking at him, thinking about these last weeks, thinking about his life in L.A. Thinking about Eric. Sitting there in his bed, reading the reviews when he wasn’t even his manager, didn’t have a single goddamned thing invested in Vince’s career except that it made Vince happy.  
  
Vince cleared his throat. “You make me happy,” he said, and Eric looked up.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You,” Vince said. He walked forward, pulled the paper out of Eric’s hands, and then sat on the bed next to him. “You make me happy. Being with you. Here, or in California, or — anywhere, doing anything, E, I swear, I swear, everything’s going to be fine, now, because I get it, I remember exactly what you mean to me.”  
  
Eric was blushing a little. “You remember?” he said, setting his cup down. “Does that mean you forgot?”  
  
“It means — I got caught up in all of this, the career, the reviews. Fuck them.” He reached out and touched Eric’s face, looked right at him. It could’ve been his Eric. Right then, he wished it was. “All I need is you.”  
  
Eric turned his face, kissed Vince’s hand. “I love you, too,” he said.  
  
“Good,” Vince said. He put one knee on the other side of Eric’s thighs, then smiled down at him. “That’s what I’m counting on.”  
  


* * *

  
  
He woke up to a high-pitched noise and burrowed into his pillow, waiting for Eric to turn off the alarm. Only – the pillow was very soft, and smelled like calla lilies, and when he reached out, Eric wasn’t next to him.   
  
He was home.   
  
Vince felt a wash of nausea and curled up. Home. Back where he and Eric were fighting, back where he and Eric weren’t he and Eric.   
  
The ringing persisted, and he reached out and grabbed his phone. “What?” he muttered, not checking the number.   
  
“Hey. Did I wake you up?”   
  
It was Eric’s voice, but the tone was – different. Uncertain. Not the strident voice of late, but also not the kind voice of New York. “Uh, it’s OK,” Vince said. “I didn't mean to snap, sorry, I wasn’t awake yet.”   
  
“I can call back in a bit, if you –”   
  
“E, don’t worry about it,” Vince said. He sat up in bed and looped one arm around his legs. It was warm here; he didn’t even need a blanket. “What’s up?”   
  
“I was, uh, are you at home? Of course, wait, I woke you up.”   
  
“Yeah, I’m here,” Vince said. He looked at the clock; it was almost noon. He wanted to see Eric, right away; it felt like the most important thing in the world. “Where are you? You wanna get lunch?” Say yes, he thought, even as Eric did.   
  
“I can pick you up,” he offered, and Vince accepted. “Thirty minutes, OK?”   
  
“Great.”   
  
He hung up and looked around. His bedroom was huge, he realized. Probably the same size as the entire apartment back in Queens. Maybe bigger. He closed his eyes and pictured the space, and when he opened them again he was smiling. Eric was coming over. They were – things were going to be OK. He walked into the bathroom – and stopped. It took him a second to look in the mirror, and then he felt a little teary with relief, seeing his own, unmarred, unbearded reflection. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, traced the outline of his eye. “I’m back,” he murmured, glad to hear his own voice. Almost everything was as it should be.   
  
When Eric arrived, Vince was waiting for him in the kitchen, freshly showered and wearing a green T-shirt he knew complimented his eyes. Eric was wearing sharp black slacks and a striped blue shirt that had the same complimentary effect on him. Vince barely kept himself from reaching over for him; not the same Eric, he thought, and instead kept it to a smile.   
  
“Hey,” Eric said.   
  
“Hey, E.” Vince wanted to hug him. It felt like he hadn’t seen him in months. When Eric sat at the island, he wanted to climb into his lap. The kitchen was too big, too, he decided; it was too easy to stay far apart. “What are you hungry for?”   
  
Eric scratched his neck. “What would you think of ordering in?”   
  
“Sounds good,” he said. “Pizza?”   
  
“Yeah, OK.”   
  
So Eric made the call and Vince made them each a drink, and he thought about where they could sit so that they'd be close together. He hadn't thought about this in Queens, with the forced intimacy of their little apartment, but now every place in the house felt like it had an ocean of space. He just wanted to be close to Eric, right now. They should have gone out, he realized; he could have sat close in the car, could have arranged for an intimate table somewhere.   
  
“You OK?” Eric asked, standing close. 

Vince put his hand on Eric's shoulder. “I need to tell you some stuff,” Vince said, and Eric's eyes narrowed.

“Me, too, actually,” he said. “Let's go sit down.”

Vince nodded, and followed Eric out to the living room. When Eric took a seat on the couch, Vince sat next to him, close, so their knees brushed when Eric moved. "What's up?" Eric said. “Are you feeling OK?”

“I don't know,” Vince said. “What is today?”

“Thursday.” 

Thursday. So no time had really passed while he was gone. If he was gone. But surely -- it hadn't felt like a dream. He'd been there, he'd been living that life. And dreams didn't last for days, not like that. Not with that kind of detail. “Have you ever -- had a dream, or like, something like a dream, that sort of -- you know, felt more real than, I guess, reality?”

“Yeah,” Eric said. He set his drink down on the coffee table.

“Really?”

Eric shook his head, like he was surprised. “Last night,” he said.

Vince swallowed. Something trembled in his chest. “Were you in New York, too?”

“No,” he said, "I was here. But -- not here like here. Here like, if something had gone wrong.” He frowned. “You dreamed about New York?”

Vince nodded. “Like you said, it was sort of -- like a parallel universe New York.”

Eric turned, just a little, and his leg pressed against Vince's. His hand rested gently on Vince's shoulder. “You wanna tell me?”

Vince took a deep breath. “We were -- we never left,” he said. “We had an apartment. And, you worked in a warehouse, and I was doing theater, Off-Broadway.” Eric nodded. “We were -- together,” he said, and turned his face toward Eric but didn't look at him.

“Together,” Eric murmured.

“We were in love, E,” Vince said quietly.

“Yeah.” Eric's hand squeezed his shoulder, then pulled away. “In mine, too.”

Vince looked over. “What was yours?”

Eric sighed. “We were still here. I came out with you, from high school, and -- we were both famous.” He smiled, but it looked fake, it looked painful. “I was a director, you believe it?”

“Sure,” Vince said, shrugging. “I always knew you had that in you.”

“Yeah?” Eric shuddered. “But things were bad. With us. With everything, really. The guys – ” He shook his head. “It was just really bad,” he said. “You were leaving me.” He looked at Vince with a kind of pleading face. “Were things bad, in your dream?”

“No,” Vince said. “Well, I mean -- there was bad stuff. We got kicked out of our houses. Turtle was totally fucked up, he had a kid, I think he was maybe dealing.” He thought about his face, then he told Eric about it, and Eric gasped, said, “Jesus.”

“But it -- you quit your job to take care of me,” Vince said. “We took care of each other. It was – I don't know, E, it was kind of sweet.”

“Romance in poverty,” he said. “Sounds like a dream, compared – ” He cut himself off and turned away, and Vince could see the tension in his shoulders. He put his hands there, tentatively, and when Eric didn't jerk away, he started to rub. Eric reached up after a moment and touched his hand. “So what now?”  
  
“Now?” Vince leaned forward. Eric smelled different, here – different shampoo, different laundry soap, all of that, but underneath he was also the same. Vince kissed the back of his neck, rested his forehead there. “Now we learn from our mistakes.”  
  
Eric’s shoulders heaved, and he pulled Vince’s arms around him. “I would never – the stuff – it was terrible,” Eric said.  
  
“You’re here, now,” Vince said. “We’re here to stay. E, we’ve made all the right decisions. That’s what I learned. What’d you –”  
  
“I need to be nicer to Drama,” Eric said, and Vince laughed.   
  
They stayed like that for a moment, and then, as Vince felt Eric starting to shift around as if impatient, he said, “I love you, E. You know? I loved you in New York, in my dream, but — right now, here, you make me happy and I love you. I love what we’ve got, what we’ve done, what we’re going to do.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eric said, and though he didn’t say anything else, he ducked and kissed Vince’s hands. And that night, they fell asleep on the couch together, neither one, it seemed, willing to get up and go to bed without the other, but both too nervous to ask. By morning they were tangled up close, Eric’s head nestled under Vince’s chin, Vince’s hand under Eric’s shirt on his back, and Vince knew neither of them was going to be able to let go of the other for a long time.  
  
And when he said that to Eric, Eric said, “I’m OK with that,” perfectly serious.  
  
Vince grinned, and kissed him like it was something they’d ever done in that world; it felt, it still felt, like they’d been doing it for years.


End file.
